Saturday, 3 November 2012

The Lion who Roared

1

She pulled the two hems of her jacket together and tightened the cincture around her waist. The night was cool; her breath fumed rivulets of vaporous mist as she began her journey through the streets. Each puff curled along the prominent rise of her cheekbones and dissipated amongst the slight swish of her short bob of dark hair. She silently pushed into the crowd and slipped back into anonymity. Tokyo was her city and it came alive at night just like her.

Throughout the day the city simply slumbered. Its heart methodically pumped the grey business suits, like blood cells around its many arteries and veins, merely going through the motions to feed its towering cement metropolis. But at night, like a black cat awakening, it arched its back and shuddered into life. Suddenly, the bright lights, the colour, the vibrant atmosphere of modernity palimpsest upon an ancient culture, shook itself free of the asperities of the day. It became starkly beautiful, a sparkling, neon-rainbow gem amidst the darkness.
   
It was this clash of old meeting new, the duality co-existing in every building and on every street which resonated with her the most. It suited her, stitching together her ancient knowledge, her ancient code, into a fabric of modern thoughts and modern technology.

The building she had left began to creak, a hopeless sigh as its foundations slowly gave out. A few of the roof tiles loosened and skittered their way to earth, smashing into a thousand ceramic splinters. The crowd stalled its fluctuations amidst a collective intake of breath. She wove her way through the stillness and disappeared, as the side of the building began to slump. Inside, through the window, a person’s silhouette could be seen limping haphazardly as if disoriented. The building creaked again, turning the rendered brick to billows of sand. The shadowed figure in the window stood still, as if accepting their fate. They were breathing so deeply that even from a distance you could see their frame expand and contract. The crowd began to panic and flee as the wall below the roofline started to come away. And just as suddenly as it began, the whole thing folded in upon itself, vanishing in a heaving gust of dust and smoke. 

ししほうこうだ
獅子 咆哮



Friday, 2 November 2012

Someone To Share Your Life With

I dreamt he was an angel. The wrinkly old cunt had downy wings and everything. The soft patter of rain was gently bouncing off the inside of my head as he floated down to his grave, where I stood waiting for him with a spade.

He handed me a biscuit. For years we'd been looking for it. In our cupboards, under our beds, on the back seats of our cars.

I looked at him. He nodded. "You know what you have to do, son."

I ate the biscuit and once I'd helped the crumbs off my jumper onto the damp earth below, I lifted up the spade and brought it down onto his head. He crumbled easily, I stuck the spade into the ground and snapped off his wings. After devouring the wings, the stray remnants hovering in the air hesitantly like sad confetti with nothing to celebrate, I plucked the spade out of the soil and proceeded to dig.

Eventually I reached the children, there were dozens of them and they can't all have been born before colour TV was invented but there they all were - grey as slate mulch.

They lifted their arms up, eager to be fed, and moaned in some kind of weird, clichéd unison with the wind. I kicked the old pervert's body on top of them and watched them rip him apart for a bit before I got bored and left the graveyard to go look for another biscuit.